


The Roll of the Dice and No Crime

by SingARoundelay



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: HIV/AIDS, Heavy Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, no really get your tissues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-21 08:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17039993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingARoundelay/pseuds/SingARoundelay
Summary: Something bad is happening and, as Marvin knows all too well, good men don't get better with age. He's still mourning the death of Whizzer Brown and, in 1985, things still haven't gotten better. If anything, it's gotten worse. Set several years after Whizzer's death and Marvin has his own demons to face.





	The Roll of the Dice and No Crime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kissoffools](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissoffools/gifts).



“You really should be resting, you know.”

Marvin groans and rolls over in the narrow bed, the thin mattress crinkling under his weight. “I’m not in the mood for your advice.” 

“Shame, I always gave you such good advice. I’m brilliant, or have you forgotten?”

Another groan and he curls up tighter into a ball. It’s quite the feat given just how tiny the bed actually is. Amazing how he’s even managed to get sleep at all. “For someone who wants me to get some rest, you’re certainly doing a good job of keeping me awake.” Marvin cranes his neck, casting the other man an arched look even if he can’t see him in the darkness. Or maybe he doesn’t want to try and make out his face in the shadows.

Probably a bit of both.

“So why don’t you shut the hell up and let me get the aforementioned rest?”

There’s the rich sound of laughter and Marvin’s stomach clenches. Remembering. When was the last time he heard laughter? _That_ particular chuckle. Why is it haunting him? Is it time…?

He closes his eyes to shut out the rest of the world, forcing his body to rest—even if his mind won’t shut off. 

No. Don’t jump to the worst-case scenario. He’s only thirty-six. He’s not _dying_. He’s tired and that’s no reason to get morbid. 

This entire conversation is a figment of his imagination.

Or maybe it’s a side effect of the painkillers he’s been on for the past week. Stupid surgery.

Eventually, sleep comes.

* * *

Minutes or maybe hours later—doesn’t really matter which, time is an illusion—Marvin rouses. He knows, even without opening his eyes, he isn’t alone in the room. Again. Funny, he thought his nap would solve all his problems.

“I’m a patient man, you know,” his visitor says. “I’m staying here in this spot, whether you want me to or not. I’m staying.”

Damn it, Whizzer. Go home.

Marvin tries to wrap his arms around himself, but they don’t move quite right. They feel sluggish, constrained somehow. Probably tangled in the bedsheets.

“Here I am, by your side, one…” Whizzer trails off, considering. “Well, I’m not calling myself old. That’s you.”

“Yes, a whole six weeks older than you,” Marvin replies.

“Ancient. You’re _ancient_ , Levitt.”

In spite of himself, Marvin lets out a bark of a laugh. He remembers this conversation as if it happened yesterday. “Is this when I ask if you’ve met a sailor yet?”

“Are we going to argue if I say yes?”

Marvin can hear the smile in Whizzer’s voice without turning to look at him.

“No, we aren’t going to argue,” Marvin says.“ I’m done with fighting. I have my own demons to wage war against without adding you to the mix.”

“Is this some sentimental bullshit, because I’ve never known you to back down from a fight. It was one of the lesser passions we—”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” he snaps, cutting Whizzer off. Some things never change. “You know, like that goddamned sailor?”

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Like a petulant child, Marvin huffs and rolls over in the bed, fighting blankets and the narrow space, to face Whizzer once more. His eyes stay closed. He’ll face him, but that doesn’t mean he actually has to _look_ at him. “Whizzer. Go home and turn on T.V. Drink a little something until you’re dead.”

There’s a long beat of silence while Marvin swallows past the lump in his throat.

“Marvin—” Whizzer starts to say.

“Oh wait—you are.” Marvin’s words overlap Whizzer’s, cutting off whatever else he was going to say.

The only sound in the room is the buzzing of a fluorescent light bulb overhead. It flickers a few times as if deciding to go out or stay lit. After a few half-hearted attempts, the bulb goes out. The room is cast in strange shadows from the one remaining bulb and the light from the hall.

“Leave me alone. Go fuck your sailor and leave me alone.”

“Now, that’s not very nice.“ Whizzer clucks his tongue in annoyance. “I came a long way to see you, after all, and this is how you treat me?”

“It is, since you have a shit sense of humor.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Neither am I,” Marvin snaps. “What, this seemed like the perfect night to come torment me? Not any of the other 1,269 ones since you died?” Marvin’s voice has taken on a new tone: anger. “Why tonight?”

“You know the answer to that.”

No he doesn’t. Or maybe he does. Maybe that answer is one of those countless things Marvin doesn’t want to admit to himself, so he swallows it down like a bitter pill. Fast, so he doesn’t have to taste it. No spoonful of sugar—just ample amounts of denial.

“Please leave me alone.” The fight has gone out of Marvin. “Go away. If you ever loved me, you’ll go back to wherever the hell you came from and leave me in peace.”

“You used to be more caustic when we fought.”

“You used to be alive.” 

It’s not the best retort, but the silence tells Marvin his uppercut landed perfectly.

They’re both quiet, as if willing the other to speak first. A last, a long-suffering sigh escapes Whizzer. “Marvin, look at me.”

With reluctance, he cracks open his eyes, gaze falling upon his dead lover. What remains of his broken heart cracks, threatening to shatter into a thousand pieces all over again. It took all twelve hundred days to try and reassemble it after Whizzer exhaled his last breath in that dingy hospital room three years ago. He’s mourned that passing ever since, thinking of the days he wasted thanks to his pride. 

The worst day was realizing Whizzer had been dead longer than they’d been together.

Now, one glance at a corporeal ghost and he’s about to lose every bit of hard-won progress he made. That isn’t to say Marvin never dreamt of Whizzer. He did. Every night. For three years.

Yet, the Whizzer in his dreams always looked hazy, as if Marvin could pass a hand through him. They never touched for that reason. Marvin liked his delusions and never wanted to feel that ghostly, chilled touch on his own skin. He clung desperately to the memory of Whizzer’s last moments before his hand fell away, lifeless. He didn’t want anything to take away their last moment together. For the few hours he slept every night, he contented himself with these imaginary visits, forgetting them the moment he woke up.

It’s how he knew Whizzer never came to him. Though Marvin firmly turned his back on religion the moment Whizzer drew his last breath, he always believed that if Whizzer really did come to visit him from the whatever plane existed after death—he would remember every second in the morning.

Somehow, this is different. 

Sitting here in this room, Marvin feels like he could reach out and feel solid skin beneath his fingertips. That he could filter his fingers through Whizzer’s floppy hair or touch the soft wool of the brown trousers that hug every inch of his thighs. The crisp white shirt they buried him in. The crooked smile that could always make Marvin forgive any number of sins..

“There, I’m looking.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes. “Stop being an asshole for once in your life. I’m not leaving, so you can cut the crap.” Whizzer lifts his chin almost in defiance, but his expression soon softens. Apparently even _he_ doesn’t want to fight tonight. “You know I would have come back sooner if I could.”

“Would you?” Marvin asks before he can stop himself.

“For fuck’s sake. If I took you back after you kicked me out over a fucking game of chess, you should know the answer to that. Damn it, Marvin, I never wanted to leave you in the first place! If you think I did, then you never loved me at all.”

It’s Marvin’s turn to chuckle. The sound is foreign to his ears. When was the last time he laughed?

“You know, dreaming about you wasn’t the same. Dream-You only said the things I wanted to hear. You’re the same dick I fell in love with.” Marvin rolls onto his back, still fighting with the damn blankets. “Little help here?” Shit, maybe Whizzer can’t touch him—or maybe he’s enjoying watching Marvin struggle. “I always dream about you when we’re apart, it seems.”

Whizzer’s smile is sad. Out of the corner of his eye, Marvin watches him stretch his long legs in front of himself, still not moving to help him. “That’s all on you. We didn’t have to spend two years apart. You could have picked up the phone any time you wanted. But you didn’t. Because you’re a stubborn asshole. Always have been and always will be.” In spite of his words, a certain fondness laces his words. “That’s something I’ve always wondered, and you always changed the subject every time I asked.”

Mayday. Marvin’s brain is sluggish and he can’t think of any way to avoid this conversation. _Shitshitshitshitshiiiit._

“If it wasn’t for Jason playing parent trap, would we have ever gotten back together?”

It’s the million dollar question. One Marvin knows the answer to and doesn’t want to admit.

“You really want to talk about that?” he asks, struggling to sit up in the bed. It’s a shame he can’t physically run away from the conversation. Marvin tries to pull the blanket aside but he winds up a mess of limbs.

“Easy, easy. You’re all tangled now.” 

Whizzer rises from his chair and Marvin cringes as the metal legs scrape against the linoleum flooring. Look at that, maybe he managed to avoid that chat after all!

He keeps moving, crosses to Marvin’s bedside and untangles the IV line from where it has wrapped itself around Marvin’s arm and the bed railing. The tubes and wires seem to snarl together easier than Jason’s Walkman headphones. Whizzer is careful not to pull the needle out and also makes sure he doesn’t set off one of the countless monitors Marvin’s hooked up to, either. It may be a figment of Marvin's imagination, but he can swear Whizzer's feather-light touch skirts across the inside of his wrist. It always was one of those spots that drove him wild.

Once free, he then eases the blanket out from where it’s bunched under Marvin’s hip, then tucks it back into place. He lays the tubing across the worn blanket and then, after a moment’s hesitation, tucks some of Marvin’s curls back underneath the grey knit cap.

His fingers run over frayed yarn, two initials written by the temple in faded marker.

W.B.

“It’s yours,” Marvin whispers, saying the obvious. “Underneath all the antiseptic and general hospital stench… it somehow still smelled like you. I couldn’t bring myself to bury you in something you hated so much. Besides, it clashed with your leather jacket.” Whizzer’s fingertips trail down Marvin’s cheek and over his jaw. With a tiny whimper, Marvin leans his head into Whizzer’s touch, craving more. “Huh, I thought your hands would be cold.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes. “I’m dead, I’m not a vampire.” He bites his lip with an impish smirk. “Thoooough, if you ask nicely, I bet I can suck your dick before the nurses come—”

“Anyway!” Marvin interrupts, a dark blush coloring his pale cheeks with two bright red spots.

“Sounds like someone is out of practice with flirting. It’s like the first night I hit on you in that club all over again.”

Somehow the blush grows darker. “Didn’t seem like there was much of a point to keeping those skills honed,” he says, “I slept with enough men while we were broken up to know that no one could ever compete with—or replace—you.” Marvin swallows hard. “N-not to mention…”

Frowning, Whizzer eases himself onto the edge of Marvin’s bed. He settles near Marvin’s hip, placing a hand on his lover’s thigh. His thumb rubs small circles over the blanket. “Not to mention...?“ he prompts.

Marvin opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get a word out, bile rises in his throat. It’s not Whizzer—it’s whatever’s wrong with him. He turns away, emptying the scant contents of his stomach into the bucket beside his bed. He retches over and over, throwing up little more than stomach acid and green jello.

Through it all, Whizzer rubs Marvin’s back, whispering soft words of comfort into his ear. Marvin remembers the number of nights their positions were reversed and it was he getting the ice chips and holding Whizzer through yet another bout of vomiting. It’s fitting in so much as it’s bittersweet.

“It doesn’t matter,” Marvin says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Whizzer squeezes Marvin’s thigh. “I’m dead, remember? I know everything—even those dark secrets you never wanted to admit to me. So why don’t you cut the bullshit and tell me.”

“I’d rather talk about the baseball game,” Marvin says weakly. “Or maybe that blowjob.”

“We’ll get to that next. And the offer of the blowjob has expired. You’re shit out of luck.”

Oh, joy.

Another light squeeze. It’s not comforting. But as the silence stretches on and on and on, Marvin realizes there’s no point in avoiding it any longer.

Fuckity-fuck.

“Not to mention—” This is harder than he thought. Marvin draws in a deep breath, trying to find the inner strength to give voice to something he’s only recently come to terms with. “Not to mention... I didn’t want to make another lover sick, so there was no point in finding someone new with whatever time I had left.”

With those few words, it’s as if the flood gates open.

Marvin rambles, talking a mile a minute, the words tumbling over each other as he tries to get everything out. He knows he isn’t making much sense, but Whizzer nods, seeming to follow along with his discombobulated story.

Most of it, Marvin assumes, Whizzer knew. Or at least could guess at. How, after he kicked Whizzer out he was reckless. If Whizzer could fuck his way through Manhattan’s gay population, Marvin believed he could do the same damn thing without consequences. He’d prove he didn’t need one man to be happy. That he wasn’t looking for a wife-with-a-cock. That he didn’t need an emotional connection to get off. 

That he wasn’t everything Whizzer said he was.

He avoided clubs for the longest time, figuring those would have drawn Whizzer in and Marvin didn’t want to find himself sucking a dick he knew in a seedy back room. He’s ashamed to admit he started out trolling the Deuce, paying for sex. It seemed the easiest and safest—safe being a relative term.

Marvin never stopped to think. Didn’t bother carrying condoms.

He never was smart when it came to sex, after all. Hell, he was the one who never thought to use a condom when he was _married_ for fuck’s sake. If he had, maybe he would have been able to hide his proclivities longer. He wouldn’t have had to come up with an excuse for how he contracted syphilis. Then again, Trina still would have caught him balls deep in Whizzer’s ass.

Even after Marvin divorced his wife and ran out with a friend, he was the one who contracted Hepatitis first. It was a one-night fling, trying to prove to Whizzer that he’d be jealous if he found out Marvin fucked other men. It didn’t work and all Marvin had to show for it was yellowed skin and a pissed off lover.

Even after everything—Marvin still wasn’t careful when it came to sex. Perhaps he thought he paid his dues and the rules didn’t apply to him. Maybe he was so angry at himself for throwing away the best relationship that he deserved whatever came to him.

His usual excuse: layers of latex didn’t feel good. 

_Play it raw, don’t play pretty. Sex and games in New York City have got to be played with flair. And passion._

Whizzer said that to him once. He should have agreed. He should have confessed his own sins right there on the racquetball court. Instead he took the high road and said it didn’t matter and they went home hand in hand.

Except Marvin did the same damn thing those two years they were apart. 

Played it raw. Fucked and fucked, comparing every single man he slept with to Whizzer. Even on the rare occasion when he tried to start a _real_ relationship, Jason never approved of his choices. Like father, like son: they both wanted Whizzer Brown in their lives.

Marvin looks up then, and the way Whizzer is smiling warms his heart. 

“Why are you smiling?”

“Because.” There’s another soft chuckle that escapes the dead man and Marvin almost feels as if he’s absolved of his sins. Most of them, anyways.

Not all.

“However, you’ve told me all of this before,” Whizzer says, brushing the back of his hand against Marvin’s cheek. 

“I have..?” Marvin asks, confused.

“Not all at once, and maybe not in this much detail, but after Jason’s baseball game you were more open with me. More honest. We both were in those days.” Whizzer’s expression softens. “I had learned that, in spite of everything, I did like being the housewife. I liked cooking for you and making a home together and I didn’t need those other men.” Whizzer leans in then, brushing his lips over Marvin’s cracked ones. “I never told you, but I was so proud of you for taking anger management classes. No matter how badly I wanted to pick up where we left off, you wouldn’t let me move back in until you’d finished them. That… that always meant a lot to me.”

Funny how they never really talked about this when Whizzer was alive. It was an unspoken assumption: they were together so clearly they’d solved their issues. 

“There’s still more,” Marvin says, resting his hand over Whizzer’s.

Whizzer spreads his fingers and Marvin threads his own through his lover’s, his thumb stroking over Whizzer’s skin.

“I know there is,” Whizzer replies. “You don’t have to say any more. Not if you don’t want to.”

“I have to. I need you to know.”

Whizzer nods, growing silent. Letting Marvin pull together the last of his confession. The words come slower this time and Marvin trips over them. Stuttering, trying to figure out where to even start. 

“You should hate me,” Marvin says, voice cracking.

“I don’t,” Whizzer replies.

“You would if you knew what I did.”

“What did you do, Marvin.”

The words come slower this time. 

“I gave this to you—and now I’m sick.”

Looking back, he knows in his heart of hearts that he’s the one who contracted this virus first. That—sorry to assume, but he knows just how many VDs Whizzer contracted when they were together—of the two of them, Whizzer was the one who already had a compromised immune system.

Marvin was the carrier but never showed symptoms beyond lingering colds. It was easier for Whizzer to show symptoms first. Easier for it to attack Whizzer.

Easier for it to kill Whizzer.

“You can’t keep blaming yourself,” Whizzer says

“Yes I can!” Marvin shouts, “I fucking killed you, do you not get it? You’re dead because of me!”

With every word, Marvin grows louder and louder until he’s screaming, his throat raw and voice cracking with every word. It isn’t long before he draws the attention of the nurses. 

The woman on duty for the overnight shift shuffles in, a frown creasing her worn face. Marvin likes this woman, she’s one of the nicer nurses here. Most of them look at the dying men in the ward as if they’re carrying the plague. She’s kind. She once told Marvin that, while there’s nothing they can do to stop the terrible march of this disease, she can at least make her patients comfortable for their last days or weeks or months.

“Who are you talking to, love?” she asks, flicking the little wheel on his IV tube. Probably trying to drug him further. Shit, he can’t have that. If she knocks him out, Whizzer might go.

He shoots a panicked look at Whizzer who places his fingers over his lips. Right. Quiet. Don’t say anything.

“Must have been a dream,” Marvin lies.

The nurse’s hand passes through Whizzer’s abdomen to lightly pat Marvin’s hand. “Get some sleep. I gave you a little something extra to help you rest easier.”

She exits the room, easing the door closed behind her and Marvin looks at the IV, debating pulling it out.

“Don’t,” Whizzer says, seemingly reading Marvin’s mind. “It’ll just bring her back here sooner.” He glances up at the clock, then looks back at Marvin’s face. “And you don’t have much time.”

“You mean _you_ don’t have much time,” Marvin corrects and Whizzer gives a tiny nod. “Right, so where was I?”

“Busy blaming yourself for my death,” Whizzer supplies.

Marvin doesn’t have a snappy retort. He closes his eyes, sinking into memories he tried to bury. He speaks slowly, deliberately, afraid to give voice to this part of his confession. He talks about how he pretended not to notice the way Whizzer’s clothes seemed to hang on his body, swallowing him. It was the first time clothes seemed to wear Whizzer rather than the other way around. The vomiting. Loss of appetite. Assuming it was nothing more than an extended case of food poisoning.

During that time it was Marvin and _not_ Whizzer who found the first lesion on his body. There wasn’t anything to hide and, when pressed, Marvin blamed it on being a klutz. Saying he must have banged his leg into a chair. Whizzer had bought the story—never knowing there wasn’t a chair. They both knew Marvin wasn’t a klutz. But when others didn’t appear, Marvin didn’t spare them another thought. He felt fine. Just had some weird bruises that never seemed to get better.

Then… came _that_ racquetball game. 

He’ll never forget the feeling of dread that settled in the pit of his stomach when Whizzer collapsed on the court. The joy of beating Whizzer at his favorite game was short-lived. Something bad was happening, but it wasn’t until Whizzer found his first bruise in the hospital did Marvin start to put all of the pieces of the horrible puzzle together.

By the time he’s done speaking, tears are streaming down Marvin’s face. It’s the first time he’s ever openly cried in front of Whizzer. Marvin always tried to hide his tears, trying to be the brave one and Whizzer, bless him, pretended not to notice. He let Marvin have his dignity.

When Whizzer reaches out to brush the tears away his touch is gentle.

“You should hate me,” Marvin says again.

“But I don’t,” Whizzer says. “If it didn’t come from you, I know I would have contracted it somehow.” He holds up a hand. “I know you’ll say if we hadn’t fought we would have stayed together but I doubt I’d have stopped sleeping around. Maybe I’d have died sooner. We’ll never know. I’m grateful to have as much time as we did.”

At long last, Whizzer climbs into the bed and draws Marvin into his arms. It’s as if Marvin has been waiting for this moment all night. He presses back against Whizzer, pulling the other man’s arms around himself. He’s crying again, this time for a completely different reason.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“I’m dying, aren’t I?”

“Everyone is dying, some of us faster than others.”

Marvin squeezes his eyes shut, not in the mood for Whizzer’s cryptic bullshit. “Am I dead?”

Whizzer kisses the back of Marvin’s neck. “Not yet, no.”

That’s something. “But soon?”

Another light kiss, followed by another non-answer. “You were with me when I died, it’s only fair that I return the favor. I’m surprised it took you this long to figure it out.”

Marvin shakes his head. “No. I think I knew why you were here from the first. I just… didn’t want to admit it. I was too happy to see you.” He twists in Whizzer’s arms, pulling back just enough so he can look at the other man one last time. “When?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

He tries another tactic. “Will I get to see Jason again?”

Whizzer shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Marvin.”

Marvin wants to scream. After all of this, he doesn’t even get to say goodbye to his _son_. The itemized list of Marvin’s regrets grows ever longer. Why did he have to brush Jason off during his last visit? Why did he say he was too tired to play one fucking game of chess? Why didn’t he say _I love you too_ when Jason and Trina and Mendel left that afternoon?

Because he thought he’d have more time.

He was supposed to have more time. 

He wasn’t supposed to die.

Now he’ll never see Jason marry, never get to hold his grandchildren. Just as he was denied the chance to grow old with his lover, now he’s going to miss out on a whole host of events.

All because of a game of chess.

“This is all my fault. If I wasn’t gay—”

Whizzer places a finger to Marvin’s lips. “Life doesn’t work that way. Being gay didn’t kill either one of us.”

Marvin doesn’t believe him, but he’s too tired to argue.

“Does… does it hurt?” Marvin asks.

Whizzer leans in to brush his lips against his lover’s but doesn’t say a word. 

“You… you need to know one last thing,” Marvin says. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe.

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

“You asked me once if I had any regrets. I have one: I’m sorry I didn’t go after you that night. Winning never should have been everything. _You_ were my everything.” He coughs, lungs feeling like they’re not working properly. He needs to say this before it’s too late. “I’m ashamed to admit just how many times I wanted to call you but couldn’t get past dialing the first few numbers. You wanted to talk about the ball game. About Jason. To my everlasting shame, my pride was too great. If it wasn’t for Jason—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Whizzer interrupts, his lips brushing against Marvin’s one last time. “We’re together now.”

Somewhere, in the distance, Marvin can hear something beeping. An alarm, maybe? There’s a commotion outside his door but it all feels fuzzy. Sluggish. Like he’s swimming in a pool of jello.

Only Whizzer’s face is clear. Radiant. He focuses on those bright blue eyes for as long as he can. Holds the memory of that last kiss close to his heart.

The beeping is louder, more insistent. He can feel someone pulling on his body but it’s hard to move his head. Hard to see anything other than Whizzer. Are there voices? They seem familiar. Marvin needs to know. He tries to stay, tries to fight whatever is coming.

_Dad. Dad don’t go. Please. I can’t lose you too._

“Will I see you when I wake?” he whispers, fingers fisting in Whizzer’s shirt. “I’m so scared.”

“There’s nothing to fear.”

“There’s nothing to fear,” Marvin echoes. His body feels light. The constant pain he’s felt for months lessens. 

He’s free.

“I love you.”

And the rest is silence.

**Author's Note:**

> So, for my amazing giftee: Not only was I thrilled to see Falsettos listed as a fandom to write for, as soon as I saw your letter this fit burst into my head. "Another little idea I had is something for after Whizzer is gone, and Marvin is the one in the hospital bed. The show pretty much comes out and says as much with Something Bad Is Happening (Reprise)" - I think we lose Marvin, too, after the show is over. What if Whizzer comes to Marvin while he's in his own hospital bed (either as an actual ghost or a figment of Marvin's imagination) to help him in his last days?" 
> 
> This fic was a beast to write—and I shed more than a few tears too—but I hope it's exactly what you wanted! As always, an amazing thank you to my incredible beta (who shall remain anonymous for now) who, though I may have broken her, I know I can always count on her for anything and everything. <3


End file.
